


Psychtober One-Shots: Dramatic Edition

by PyroKlepto



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, Jekyll and Hyde, One-Shots, Psychoween, Psychtober, there is a character death in at least one of these
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-25 16:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4967887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyroKlepto/pseuds/PyroKlepto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shots for Psychtober/Psychoween, based off prompts by the lovely MuiromeM here on Archive of Our Own. Rated Teen and Up just to be safe, though as of yet a major character death is the only really serious 'offence' right now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Kiss of Death

**Author's Note:**

> "Kiss of Death" is the first 'Spooky' prompt I chose for Psychoween/Psychtober. I got an outrageously AU-ish idea for a one-shot and just had to write it.
> 
> As the title suggests, there is a major character death. And a few other things - I cannot stress enough that this is an AU, and is most likely majorly Out of Character. It's slightly canon, but a lot of it probably isn't. On that note, I am only to Season 4, Episode 4, so I may be going even more against canon than I thought. Like I said - it's an AU in which Carlton Lassiter is more in touch with his Irish heritage, and in which Shawn doesn't... _technically_ exist.
> 
> Anyway, you'll see. Enjoy this first 'creepy' one-shot for Psychoween.

It was a cold night in Dublin, with a rare clear sky, when Carlton Lassiter saw the banshee.

She was beautiful, cloaked in a flowing white gown that seemed to glow in the darkness. Her hair was pale as mist, almost luminescent as she ran a silver comb through it. While Carlton had been asleep earlier on, slumped in a chair next to the window, he knew he was very much awake at the moment his eyes fell upon the apparition - this was no dream.

The banshee halted her hair-combing, lifting her head slowly to face him. Red-rimmed eyes met sky blue ones through the windowpane. 

Then she shrieked. A thin, hollow sound that pierced through Carlton like an icy dagger and sent him reeling backwards. The cry seemed to echo for hours and for miles, a mournful sound full of pain. 

And yet it eventually faded into silence. Heart thundering, Carlton braced his hands against the floor and stood up, slightly unsteady. The banshee had vanished from the window, leaving behind a chill in the air and a shadow over his heart.

He had always pretended to scoff at the prospect of ghosts or supernatural beings existing, when the subject arose in conversation. It had always been a false front to hide the fact that he very much did believe in them.

So the sighting of a banshee filled him with dread. He knew whose death the ghostly woman’s cry heralded.

His sister’s.

Eileen - Leena - had fallen ill several weeks ago, and was bed-ridden. That was why Carlton had come back to Ireland; where he had not lived since he was a child. It was where his mother and younger sister currently lived. His father, of course, was nowhere to be found, and they needed someone to be there for him. Carlton didn’t need to be asked - he had requested vacation leave from his current job at the Santa Barbara police department and taken the first flight to Dublin.

And now it was here he stood in the den of his mother’s house, stock-still, as a serpent of fear coiled its way around his heart. “Leena…” 

He cautiously made his way to the room where his sister slept and tentatively opened the door to check on her. From where he stood, he could see her shoulders rising and falling steadily as she slept. 

Only slightly relieved, Carlton shut the door silently and leaned against the wall, sliding into a sitting position on the floor. He wasn’t going to leave his post near her room; not now. He wanted to be there, in case anything happened or his sister called out.

He stayed awake. Years of stake-outs had given him the diligence to keep his eyes open all night if need be.

But this wasn’t a stake-out. This was something far more important.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

Death had been watching his next target for quite a while; though not under these circumstances. Usually it was a near-death experience that called him to the blue-eyed soul’s side - they had been deliberate attempts as a young man to get Death to retrieve him too soon, but more recently it had been gunshot wounds, automobile accidents, or head injuries that brought the man to Death’s attention.

Now, his time to be brought to another life had finally come.

And Death didn’t want to follow through with his obligation. Not this time.

It was forbidden for Death to show favoritism. Yet he wanted to. There was something about this lonely soul that touched his heart - yes, even Death has a heart; too much of one, really.

Death wasn’t sure why he felt such love for one soul among millions. But he did. And he simply did not want to show himself to the man. Because that would mean his time was truly up; he wouldn’t have the chance to finally find true happiness, or fall in love, or accomplish all the many things he had the potential to accomplish.

Yet rules were rules. Death was to guide Carlton Lassiter to the Afterlife on the 18th of April, precisely two minutes after the clock struck noon.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

It had been three days since the banshee had come unbidden to the Lassiter house. Carlton hadn’t slept since then, living off generous amounts of coffee and a healthy dose of paranoia.

He didn’t want to risk falling asleep only to awake to find Leena dead. 

“Carlton. What’s the matter?”

Carlton jerked his head up to look at his mother. “Um, nothing. How’s Leena?” He took a sip of his coffee without thinking about it, and hissed through his teeth when it burnt his tongue.

His mother frowned at him. “I almost want to say she’s better than you.” 

Carlton returned the frown. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You look awful,” his mother pointed out. “How long has it been since you slept? For that matter, why haven’t you been sleeping?”

“I--” He couldn’t tell her the truth; it was kept buried by the dark hope that if he didn’t speak the words aloud, they would not come to pass. “It’s just a bout of insomnia.”

She was very clearly unconvinced, but said no more; she just sighed and nodded, retreating to the kitchen to make breakfast. 

Carlton glanced down the hall. “Hey, is Leena awake?”

“Yes, she is. Go say hello; you’ve hardly spoken a word to her in days. Or me.” The words were pointed, but Carlton ignored them, setting his coffee down and making his way to his sister’s room. 

He rapped on the door. “Leena?”

“Carly! Come in!” She sounded excited, and he felt a pang of guilt; he should have been spending time with her whenever possible, not avoiding her because of his own emotions. He opened the door and walked in.

“So, what--” She cut herself off, looking him up and down. “Carly, you look--”

“Awful, I know.” Carlton rolled his eyes and sat down in the chair beside the bed. “You’re pretty as ever though.”

She snickered, but her grey eyes lit up at the compliment. “I look like death warmed over.”

He flinched inwardly at her comparison, but said nothing of it. “No, you don’t.”

She grinned. “Fine. So, what have you been up to in California?”

He shrugged. “Not much. The usual thing.” 

Her face grew serious. “What’s bothering you?”

“Why do people keep asking me that?” Carlton scowled. 

“Because the shadows under your eyes are darker, you’re more distracted than usual, you look tense as anything, and you’ve been drowning yourself in coffee,” Eileen responded matter-of-factly.

A silence fell over the room, and Carlton knew he had to tell her something. He may have been able to shake his mother’s questions off, but this was Eileen - she knew him better than anyone. She would catch him in a lie straight away.

“I’m worried about you,” he admitted. That wasn’t a lie; not really.

Her gaze softened. “I’ll be okay. I’m even getting stronger. And I’ve been awake more lately.”

“Yeah, but…” He shook his head. “Never mind, you’re right. I’m just worrying over nothing.” Though he knew deep down that the call of a banshee was hardly nothing. 

“And that’s okay.” She reached out and patted her brother’s hand. “It just means you care about your kid sister. Even if you hate admitting it.” She winked.

On an impulse, Carlton swallowed past the knot in his throat and caught her hand before she pulled it away, holding it in a loose grasp. “Yeah. I do care.” 

He wanted to say something more, but words failed him. So he just sat there. Eileen didn’t say anything either, squeezing his hand gently and remaining quiet - brother and sister sat in the dim light of the morning, somehow speaking volumes without saying anything at all.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

Death watched the scene from his own world. It wouldn’t be long now.

His heart ached, but there was a spark of relief that this wandering soul would spend the last few hours of his life with those who loved him. 

He deserved so much more than what his life in lot had been... but if Carlton Lassiter only received one thing before entering the Afterlife, Death was glad that it was the feeling of being wrapped in love and warmth on a sunny Irish morning.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

Carlton sat on a bench in town. It was 11:45 in the morning, and warmer than Dublin usually was at this time of year.

His mother had all but shoved him out of the house, insisting that he get some fresh air rather than ‘cooping himself up in the house and wandering around like a zombie’. So he had walked around for an hour or so before finding a bench in the heart of town. In another fifteen minutes, he would go back home whether his mother wanted him to or not. He hated being away from Eileen.

The faintest of breezes whispered past him, fading a moment later. Idly, he looked to his right, and nearly jumped when he saw a man sitting beside him. 

“I know. You’re wondering how you didn’t notice me sit down,” the stranger said casually. His accent was very clearly American. Carlton found himself staring rather than answering. 

The man wore a flannel shirt, a leather jacket, and blue jeans. He didn’t seem to have shaved for at least two days, leaving a dusting of stubble across his face. His brown hair had been styled very carefully, and his eyes intrigued Carlton far more than they should have - at first they seemed to be a dusky grey-blue, but then they seemed more hazel; it must have been a trick of the light. But what caught his attention the most was how ancient they looked; as though they had seen far more than the man’s outward age let on.

“Who are you?” Carlton asked bluntly.

The man looked away for a moment, fingertips tapping against one another. Then he looked back. “We don’t have much time, so I’ll talk plainly - though you probably know who I am. I’m Death.” 

Carlton felt that familiar sensation of being stabbed in the gut with a dagger, though this time it was a different sort of shock. “I see.”

“I knew you’d take it well.” The man leaned back, nonchalantly reaching behind his head with both arms and interlacing his fingers. 

Carlton leapt to his feet. “Well, yeah, I saw a banshee three days ago. And look here, I’m not letting you take my sister.” He squared his shoulders; somehow, standing up to Death was far easier when Death looked so much like a mortal man. And yet he knew that this truly was Death - no living human had the eyes of such an old soul.

The man - Death - didn’t stand up. Instead, he averted his gaze, looking… ashamed? Guilty? Carlton wasn’t sure which. But then the man’s next words struck him in the heart.

“Your sister’s time isn’t up. Yours is.”

“Mine.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement. Carlton struggled between waves of relief and waves of terror. 

“Yes.” The man - Death - ran a hand through his hair and offered a slightly sheepish grin. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, actually, but I felt the need to. I don’t know why. I guess you could say I feel bound to you.”

Carlton blinked but didn’t respond. One hand was clenched loosely at his side, and the other gripped the back of his neck as he tried to grasp what was happening. “So the banshee was announcing my death. Not my sister’s.”

“Yeah, that’s about the gist of it.” Death patted the bench. “C’mon, sit down.”

Carlton obeyed, though he didn’t know why. He stared out at the road, lost in his thoughts. “How does it happen? I mean, what could happen to me sitting on a bench? Don’t tell me I’m going to have a heart attack. Or are you just going to fly me away on some chariot here and now, and it’ll just look like I had a heart attack?”

“I’m breaking way too many rules just showing myself to you right now,” Death said. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything more than what I have. But… well, you’ll see.”

“Do I have time to…” Carlton hesitated, glancing back in the direction of his mother’s house before looking at Death. “Do I have time to--”

“No.” The man who was Death looked genuinely anguished to say it. “You don’t. But I’ll tell you one more thing - your sister still has a lot of time left.”

Carlton felt some sense of relief in his chest. He was quiet, and then opened his mouth to ask another question. Somehow, Death knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“Yeah, Lassie. Your mom knows you love her. She loves you too.”

“Don’t call me that,” Carlton muttered, finding it easier to comment on the nickname than on… well, everything else. 

There was a long moment of silence, and suddenly he heard the clock in the square chime noon, the ringing sounds resounding throughout the town. “Look--” He turned to speak to Death again, only to find that he was gone; vanished without a trace. 

Before he could even wonder what had happened, Carlton heard a scream.

Near a pub, a young woman stood in frozen terror as a man approached her, holding a gun. He appeared to have come from the flat across the street.

Everything happened in a heartbeat, it seemed. Carlton surged to his feet and started to run, reaching for his own gun before remembering he didn’t have it - his mother forbade him to carry a firearm when visiting. 

He didn’t allow himself even a moment to utter a choice word over this turn of events, his feet pounding against the street until he flung himself at the gunman. The gun went off, firing into the sky, and Carlton grappled for control. 

He could hear a scream, and feel faint throbs of pain with every blow the attacker managed to deal him, but continued to fight. Just as it had always been, there was one thought - one concept, one emotion - that took over him in a crisis: the urge to protect. 

The gun went off again. There was another scream, and for a moment, the fear that an innocent bystander had been injured sent adrenaline coursing through his veins. He managed to tear the gun away from his opponent just as the burning pain finally registered.

Carlton stumbled, trying to subdue the attacker even as he fell. A group of young Irishmen and someone who looked like a cop came rushing forward and immediately took over keeping the gunman in check.

Carlton fell back onto the pavement. He could see a blossom of crimson blooming across the chest of his white button-up shirt, and faintly realised what was happening. 

All of the panicked shouts and calls for an ambulance faded into background noise as familiar words echoed in Carlton’s head. _Your sister’s time isn’t up. Yours is._

Just as the words became echoes, a familiar face appeared. The carefully styled hair, the blue-then-hazel eyes… Death.

Again, Death read his thoughts - or seemed to - and said quietly, “Your family, and your friends back in Santa Barbara, are going to be okay, Lassie.”

Carlton fuzzily registered the usage of the nickname and felt the correct response was to protest, but he couldn’t find the breath to. 

Then Death pressed a soft, gentle kiss to Carlton’s lips, and even the background noise of the panicked crowd faded into nothingness.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

Death could hardly bear to watch as fate took place - he knew for a fact that this was how Carlton Lassiter had always predicted he would go down: fighting, protecting, defending. Somehow, Death took solace in that; this blue-eyed soul had fought bravely to the last, and that was something to be proud of.

Yet Death felt his heart shattering as the mortal soul he had become so fond of over the years fell to the ground. Death waited a quiet moment before appearing again, visible only to Carlton.

Death was hit full-force with Carlton’s thoughts and emotions - fear was prevalent, and the thoughts were heartbreaking. _I didn’t make something of myself, like I always swore I would… what will happen to the Department with me gone… I wonder if O'Hara will handle it alright... will Leena be okay… when I’m not around to protect her… I never was the greatest son… I never got to tell Mom and Leena that I loved them one last time…_

And Death wanted to lend some comfort, but he had an obligation to complete. So instead, he told Carlton some of the future - against the rules, but Death just did not care. Softly, he said, “Your family, and your friends back in Santa Barbara, are going to be okay, Lassie.”

He could feel some of the fear coiled around Carlton’s heart slip away, and some of the pain in his own heart faded with it. Then, Death leaned forward and very gently placed a kiss upon Carlton Lassiter’s lips - it was time to guide ‘his’ brave blue-eyed soul to the Afterlife; to take him home.


	2. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the lines between nightmares and reality blur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically a Lassiet one-shot, though not quite. It's much scarier than my last one, which was more heartbreaking than anything. 
> 
> I will give the warnings outright: consider this one-shot rated T for frightening concepts, brief descriptions of murder tactics, and a gunshot wound. The ending is an open one, meaning what happens afterward could go any number of ways. 
> 
> I cried writing this one; that doesn't mean it's good (I'm still pretty sure most of my writing is crap), but it does mean that it's better quality than normal in my personal opinion.
> 
> Enjoy!

Patches of moonbeams spotted the halls of the abandoned house. The night outside was silent, as though even the wind had stifled its sound in order to hide.

Juliet O’Hara crept up the stairs, swift and quiet. Her heart felt like a sparrow fighting against the trap of her ribcage. She wove in between silver moonlight and black shadow, trembling in spite of herself.

And footsteps from downstairs reached her ears.

The sparrow in her chest grew ever more frantic. Juliet took in her surroundings, and saw a door up ahead at the end of the hall. She changed her course and hurried there. She opened the door and slipped inside before shutting it, all as silently as she could. It was a bedroom. A child’s bedroom.

She dragged the dresser across the room and leaned it against the door. Her breathing sounded ragged to her ears, and she held her breath to listen for her pursuer.

Footsteps, slow and deliberate, sounded just outside the door. Juliet bit down hard on her lip, backing away from the door. 

There was a faint scraping sound and a thud. Then the footsteps faded away. 

Juliet hesitated for several long minutes until she was sure that the hallway was empty. Then she stepped toward the dresser, ready to move it and bolt outside, down the stairs, and out the front door.

Then the closet door crashed open, slamming against the wall with a sound that seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

Juliet couldn’t hold back a frightened cry, and stumbled backwards. A hatch - that no doubt led to the attic - hung open in the ceiling of the closet. And an all-too-familiar shape stepped out of the darkness, brushing past long-forgotten shirts and jackets.

“Carlton…” Juliet said, her voice hoarse. “C-Carlton, please…”

The blue eyes that once softened whenever they fell upon her were now devoid of emotion - cold as stone. The lips that once curved into a smile at the sight of her were now set in a thin line. And the hands that could be strong and gentle at the same time held a glinting knife.

Juliet backed away toward the door, her whole body shaking. She knew she had no chance to move the dresser before he was upon her. 

“Please… don’t do this,” Juliet whispered. “This isn’t like you… I’m sorry, I didn’t--” 

His grin, which reminded her of the leer of a shark, caused Juliet to falter. Then his words jarred her into complete silence.

“Shut up, O’Hara.”

He walked forward, and his demeanour was predatory. Tears escaping her eyes and coursing down her cheeks, Juliet spun around and frantically tried to shove the dresser away from the door.

The last thing she heard was the footsteps of the man she loved; then something sharp drove into her back…

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

Juliet O’Hara woke up on the floor - tangled in her sheets, with her hair matted from sweat and the remnants of tears.

Trembling, she extracted herself from the twisted bedsheets and shut off the alarm clock, which had been playing a lively Irish reel in an attempt to awaken her. 

She walked through her morning activities in a fog, exhausted despite having slept over five hours the night before. Her mind kept returning to the nightmare.

Juliet couldn’t bring herself to look in the direction of Carlton Lassiter’s desk when she walked into the Santa Barbara police department. She made a beeline for her own desk and sat down, immediately picking up a case file and rifling through it.

“Coffee?”

Juliet jumped, dropping the case file in the process, and looked up sharply. Lassiter stood there with two cups of coffee, and his expression quickly melted into concern at her reaction. “Are you okay, O’Hara? You look a little worn-out.”

“Yeah.” Juliet took the coffee he had offered her. “Yeah. I’m fine.” She still couldn’t make eye contact with him. “How are you?”

She could hear him take a sip of his own coffee, and she could hear the edge of disbelief in his voice. “Same as always. Are you sure you’re--”

“Yes.” Juliet picked up the case file again. “I have work to do, Carlton; talk later?” She forced herself to keep her voice light. 

A silence fell for several moments. When she glanced up, she saw him studying her with blue eyes. Finally, he said, “Yeah, talk later.” 

He turned and walked away, leaving Juliet to breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

Lassiter frowned. Juliet had seemed skittish all day; the few times he approached her, she became even more standoffish. Like she was afraid of him, or - at the very least - wanted him to keep far away from her.

The thought made him nervous. Had he said or done something? He knew all too well that he had a tendency to frighten off any woman he had feelings for. 

It bothered him. She didn’t know how he felt yet, meaning if she was acting like this… Lassiter shook his head. He would have to back off. The last thing Chief Vick needed was for her two detectives to be at odds with one another.

The thought of retreating once again, and avoiding even the simple gestures - which he had assumed were just ‘friend’ things to do - gave him an unwanted twinge in his heart. 

But whatever had Juliet acting so strangely clearly had to do with Lassiter. And he didn’t want to hurt her. So staying away became the only viable option.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

Juliet couldn’t tell what time of day it was; the heavy fog drifting all around obscured her chances of knowing whether it was early morning or early evening. It couldn’t be nighttime; it wasn’t quite dark enough for that yet.

She was on a case; a particularly gruesome one. The murderer had a calling card - he would leave bloody lines on his victims’ arms, almost like their tear tracks, which were also made an eerie red. As though they wept blood.

For days now, Juliet hadn’t seen Lassiter. She wasn’t sure why. It felt strange to be on a case without him. But she could do this. 

Everything just felt off, for some reason.

Of course, she was tracking a killer through a fog-covered neighbourhood, so that might contribute to the uneasy feeling. 

A twig snapped, echoing through the cold air and the silence. Juliet reached for her gun, trembling despite her best efforts not to. She turned in the direction she thought the sound had come from. She could barely see more than two feet in front of her, so she moved cautiously.

Then she heard running footsteps.

Her first instinct told her to turn and run in the opposite direction. But that wasn’t in her job description. So with a deep breath, she chased after the unseen foe.

The footsteps disappeared, and seconds later, the porch of a house appeared abruptly. Juliet stumbled to a stop just before slamming into the railing, and set herself back on course; darting through the open door with only a moment’s hesitation.

The house seemed abandoned; no person stirred, and no lights were on. The only illumination came from outside, dim and hardly useful. A button-eyed ragdoll rested limply on the table.

Juliet tilted her head, listening carefully for her target. The faintest of scuffling sounds came from upstairs. With a deep breath meant to steady her shaking, Juliet crept softly up the steps.

She searched in every room and in every corner. Nothing. Not even another sound. 

On edge now, Juliet went back downstairs. The killer must have backtracked without her noticing and left the house again. 

Sure enough, upon reaching the last step, Juliet realised the front door - which she had left open - was now shut. Scowling, she walked towards it. 

And then someone darted around the corner of the staircase and slammed into her, sending her crashing to the floor.

Juliet’s gun went clattering across the room. She bit down hard on her tongue upon impact, tasting metal, and thrashed out of her assailant’s grip. Then she turned around - once again finding herself looking into the blue eyes of a very familiar face. 

Her heart seemed stuck in her throat. “No…”

He moved too quickly for her to keep up with, and a burning pain slashed across her arms as she struggled violently, screaming for someone - anyone - to come help her. 

“Shhh.” The once-comforting voice now struck blind terror into Juliet’s heart. She tried to punch Lassiter, but he caught her fist in his free hand - the one not holding the red-edged knife to her cheek. “Don't cry. Not real tears anyway.”

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

Juliet fell off her bed when she jolted awake, slamming her head against the edge of her nightstand. She untangled herself, shaking, from her sheets and buried her face in her hands with a choked sob.

This had been the fifth nightmare in as many days. All but one of them had been about Lassiter. 

Juliet grabbed hold of the bedpost and hauled herself to her feet, hardly able to bring herself to walk into the kitchen. She didn’t want to go to work - the thought of it caused her stomach to churn. But she didn’t want to go back to bed either. 

So she left the house and drove down to the police station. She hesitated on the front steps, dreading the idea of walking through the doors. Lassiter had been avoiding her lately, and she didn’t know why. Was he planning something? No, that was ridiculous… the nightmares were just that - nightmares. They weren’t psychic visions. Those were Shawn’s area of expertise.

Someone spoke from behind her. “Detective O’Hara? Are you okay?”

Juliet spun around, heart racing. Buzz McNab stood there, holding his car keys in one hand. He must have just arrived at work as well. “I… I’m fine.”

He tilted his head, eyes softening with worry. “You don’t look fine. You look really tired.” He frowned. “And you have a bruise on your forehead. Do you need to call in sick? I can let the chief know for you.” 

“No, really, I’m fine.” Juliet tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and forced a smile.

He didn’t look convinced, but he nodded, returning the smile and walking to the doors of the station. He held one open for her; she thanked him, and entered the last place on earth she wanted to be.

Before she could reach the ‘safe zone’ that she called her desk, she all but ran into Lassiter, who was on his way toward the coffee machine. She stumbled backwards, biting back a gasp.

The head detective looked over at her. “I’m sorry, O’Hara. I wasn’t--” He stopped. “O’Hara, what happened to your head?” His voice went from apologetic to concerned within moments.

“Nothing.” Juliet attempted to dodge past him.

“It’s not nothing, it’s a cut and one nasty bruise. Look, what’s wrong with you lately?” He reached out and took her arm. “I--”

Juliet couldn’t swallow back the gasp of fear this time and tore herself away from him, backing away quickly. She could see his eyes widen in confusion. 

Without saying a word, Juliet retreated to her desk and immediately started rifling through paperwork, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

Lassiter sat at his desk later that day. He had skipped lunch, so there weren’t many police officers around. Juliet was gone.

He found himself absolutely bewildered. She acted like he had hurt her; for that matter, ever since he had distanced himself from her, she had been responding worse and worse the longer he gave her space. And he just didn’t understand.

How could he be causing any of this if he wasn’t even going near her? 

“Lassie.” 

Shawn’s voice, despite the obnoxious nickname, sounded much more serious than usual. Lassiter looked up. The psychic - fake psychic, as Lassiter continued to insist - had a somber expression on his face to match his voice.

“I’m not in the mood for your antics, Spencer,” Lassiter responded, rolling his eyes and returning his gaze to the paperwork on his desk. “I have work to--”

Before he could finish his sentence, Shawn yanked the paperwork away and dropped it on the floor. Lassiter stared at him, dumbfounded. Then the psychic spoke. 

“What’d you do, huh?” 

“What are you talking about?” Lassiter snapped. “What’s wrong with you?”

“To Jules! What did you do to her?” Shawn demanded, his eyes almost blazing. “I was here this morning, you know. I saw how she reacted when you touched her, and I saw that cut on her forehead. I swear, if you’ve been hurting her, I’m gonna make sure the chief knows.” 

Lassiter shoved his chair away from the desk and stood up, appalled. “What in--I didn’t do that!” 

“Then why does she act like you did?” 

“I don’t know, that’s what I’d like to know!” Lassiter felt sick to his stomach, and hid it with a mask of anger. “I would never hurt her!” He wanted to shout it at Spencer - that hurting Juliet, or even worse, _losing_ her, would kill him. But he bit his tongue.

Shawn scoffed, staring pointedly at Lassiter. When he spoke again, his words were much quieter but with a sharp edge. “With your temper, sometimes I wonder.” 

Lassiter lunged forward, grasping Shawn’s shirt in both fists. “Listen, you--”

“Detective Lassiter!” Chief Vick barked. “In my office, now.” 

He turned around to see the chief standing at the door to her office, scowling. With a scowl of his own, Lassiter let go of Shawn’s shirt and pushed him away before retreating.

“What was that all about, Detective?” Vick asked when Lassiter walked into her office.

“Spencer was… provoking me,” Lassiter replied carefully. “I was attempting to vacate him from the premises.” 

“Next time, do so with less force,” Vick said dryly. That was the last mention she made of the subject, meaning that Lassiter wasn’t going to face consequences for his rash actions - this time. He waited for her to explain why she had asked him into her office. 

Noting his expectant look, Vick said, “We’re waiting on Detective O’Hara. I have a case for you two.”

Just as she said that, the blond detective came walking into the room.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

Juliet bit her tongue upon entering the office and seeing that Lassiter stood in the corner. He made eye contact with her for a moment before quickly looking away.

“Uh…” Juliet forced herself to maintain some semblance of nonchalance. “You wanted me, Chief?”

“Yes.” Vick picked up a case file from the desk. “There have been a series of murders recently. Most of them have been committed with some sort of sharp object, probably a knife.”

Juliet listened, her stomach churning as Vick explained the circumstances of the case. Beyond the ‘murders with a knife’ aspect, it wasn’t similar to her most recent nightmare at all. But even that one similarity caused Juliet’s blood to run cold.

“Detective O’Hara?” 

She snapped out of her thoughts, and realised Vick was staring at her. “Oh, yes?”

“Are you okay? You seem distracted,” the chief said, raising both eyebrows. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Juliet nodded. 

“Alright.” The chief sounded unconvinced, but continued. “You’ve both been assigned the case, and--”

“Chief, I don’t think--” Lassiter started.

“I don’t want any arguments, Detective,” Vick said. “I don’t care whether you think you want to do this or not. It requires my best people, and that happens to be you and Detective O’Hara. So you’re both assigned the case, and that’s final.”

Juliet knew what the undertones of Vick’s command were - she knew that Lassiter and Juliet had been acting strangely towards one another recently, and had decided that they were going to work together, like it or not. 

Juliet wasn’t sure whether the idea was frightening or not.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

After only a few days, leads on the killer’s whereabouts had been discovered. Juliet, Lassiter, and several policemen had followed the leads to a neighbourhood a half-mile from the seaside. A wispy mist had rolled in from the water and found its way to the neighbourhood streets.

Static crackled from her radio, and Juliet heard one of the police officers say that the yard they had just searched was clear.

She kept moving down the sidewalk, scanning her surroundings. Each rustling leaf and creaking branch made her heart skip a beat, but she knew she couldn’t just turn back and hide in the car. That was not an option.

More static, and then Lassiter’s voice. “Someone check the house down at the end of the first cul-de-sac. I don’t think anyone has yet, and that’s nearest to where our informant spotted him.”

A quick look around showed Juliet that she was right across the street from the cul-de-sac. She stopped in her tracks, nervous. It would be easier to wait for one of the police officers to arrive, as backup… but who knew how long that would take, and who knew whether the killer would get away in that time.

So, steeling herself, Juliet strode across the street.

The house Lassiter had referred to looked empty. No cars were in the driveway, and no lights were on. As she got closer, Juliet could see that the window in the front door was cracked; but it wasn’t shattered. She tested the knob. It was locked.

There was no alternatives. She needed to get inside. So she fired her gun at the door, aiming it so that the bullet would shatter the lock, and wrenched the door open.

The house was silent except for her own breathing, confirming her suspicions; the owners weren’t home. 

Holding her gun tightly, Juliet started methodically searching the house. She walked throughout the entire first floor, checking in every room. 

Then she stood at the bottom of the stairs. After several seconds of silently protesting the idea, she ascended the staircase.

A door was open at the end of the hallway, illuminated by a bit of moonlight that managed to peek through the skylight.

Juliet drew in a deep breath, and crept forward. She paused outside of the room, and then swung around the corner, holding her gun up and ready to fire. 

Nothing. No one stood in the room waiting for her, and nothing seemed out of place. The window was shut, the closet was open and empty except for clothing, and nothing had been broken.

Scanning the room one last time, Juliet left and continued searching the rooms as quietly as she could. 

A loud, mournful cry startled Juliet when she entered the last room upstairs. Then a calico cat - the source of the wail - streaked past her and raced downstairs, causing her heart rate to spike. She stood in yet another empty room, breathing unsteadily. Then she gathered her wits and exited.

The house was empty. Despite knowing that fact, Juliet couldn’t help but continue to move as quietly as possible as she descended the steps.

The front door was open; just as she had left it. She lowered her gun and carefully left the last step of the staircase. 

The minute her foot hit the floor, there was a flash of movement to her left. Before she could scream, a gunshot rang out. 

Pain flared through Juliet. She hit the floor, clutching a hand to the bullet wound in her abdomen.

Through the corner of her eye, she saw a shape step the rest of the way around the corner of the kitchen. Suddenly, a familiar head of salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes loomed over her. 

“I--oh my God. No. No…” Lassiter’s words were hoarse and frantic. “No.” He fell to his knees. “Juliet…” 

He switched his radio on. “We need backup and an ambulance at that cul-de-sac house, _now_.” A person on the other end started to ask a question, and Lassiter cut them off. “ _Now_ , do you hear me?! No questions, no arguing, get an ambulance and backup down here _right now_!”

Juliet felt she should be scared, but the pain didn’t let her. 

Lassiter stripped off his jacket and bunched it up, pressing it gingerly to her wound. Through the haze of her vision, Juliet could see raw emotion showing on the man’s face. Terror and guilt were the only ones she could identify.

He kept trying to stop the bleeding, continuing to talk frantically. “Oh, God, Juliet. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think… I didn’t know you were…” His voice broke, and he pressed his free hand to his mouth, clenching it into a fist. Voice muffled, he whispered, “I never meant to hurt you.”

Juliet said nothing. The pain was either gone, or so bad she couldn’t feel it… 

Lassiter wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, hissing through his teeth. “Don’t cry,” he muttered to himself. He looked back down at Juliet.

She wasn’t scared of him now; not much. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. 

So when he ghosted a trembling hand across her cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, she didn’t try to get away. She didn’t flinch when a teardrop fell onto her forehead. 

“Juliet… Juliet, stay with me. The ambulance is almost here. Stay with me… God…” The last thing she heard before shadow took over her vision was a choked-back sob, and a self-given order made in a broken whisper. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry.”


	3. Summoning Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't really summon a demon with a piece of paper and some pencils - right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this rated T for some fairly frightening scenes. 
> 
> I don't have much to say about this, except that it's the one-shot I am most proud of out of all the things I've written for Psychtober so far, and that I will almost certainly end up turning it into a longer fanfiction at a later date. Enjoy.

“Shawn. Shawn, this is a _bad idea_.”

“Gus, don’t be Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Marzipan,” Shawn replied. “What could be the worst thing to happen, anyway?”

Gus glowered at his best friend. “You could summon a real demon. You aren’t supposed to mess around with the occult, Shawn, it ends badly. Have you ever paid attention to horror movies?”

Shawn raised both eyebrows and narrowed his eyes in a superior expression. “It’s a couple of pencils, and a paper with some words written on it. Relax.”

Gus tried to snatch the paper and pencils away from Shawn. “Pretending to be a psychic is one thing, but messing with the supernatural for real is another.”

Leaping backwards to keep the writing supplies out of Gus’s reach, Shawn scanned the police department for a suitable place to try his experiment. This empty conference room simply wouldn’t do. He spotted Lassie and Jules sitting at a desk in one of the other conference rooms and made his decision, all but prancing over.

He sat down in a chair and slapped his paper down on the desk. 

“Shawn, what are you doing?” Juliet asked, her voice a cross between annoyance and amusement.

Gus wandered into the room but hung back near the door. Lassiter just rolled his eyes and scowled, looking completely jaded.

Shawn didn’t respond, instead placing the pencils in the shape of a cross on the slip of paper, upon which was drawn a grid with the words ‘yes’ and ‘no’ in the boxes. 

“Spencer, what the hell?” Lassiter said.

“Shhh. I am about to summon someone from the spirit world,” Shawn whispered, placing a hand to his temple. Staring at the paper, he intoned, “Charlie, Charlie, are you here?”

“What the--” Lassiter began again. He shut up before he could finish, eyes riveted on the paper. 

The pencils were shifting. Eventually, the tips pointed to ‘yes’. Just as that happened, the lights throughout the entire police station flickered.

Gus made a whimpering sound from the door. Juliet’s breath caught in her throat, and Shawn stared wide-eyed at the paper. He had not expected anything to actually happen. 

A long, heavy silence fell. Lassiter’s hand twitched, and he moved it towards his jacket as though reaching for his gun.

“Shawn, what just happened…?” Juliet whispered, slowly standing up and backing away from the desk and the slip of paper on it.

Gus tried to say something, but his voice cracked before he could get a single word out. 

Shawn tilted his head, peering at the paper. “I’m sensing something…” And he didn’t say it solely for the dramatic effect. Something definitely felt… different. Off. In as steady a voice as he could muster, he called out, “Can you talk?”

That was actually a very dumb thing to say; if he wanted to keep up the psychic act, he should just pretend to be conversing with a spirit. But he felt that the extra question had been necessary. It wasn’t like he would get an audible response - the pencils had been moved by simple gravity, and the lights flickering had been a coincidence. 

At first, there was nothing. Not a single sound besides Gus’s slightly panicked breathing and the faint sound of police officers conversing elsewhere in the department.

And then the lights flickered abruptly again before going out completely, plunging the room into darkness. The unexpected loss of light was accompanied by an electrical buzzing sound that faded shortly after. A metallic scent pervaded the air.

Gus let out a yelp, and Juliet gasped. Shawn heard Lassiter utter a muffled curse word that he cut off short. 

One light switched on - the lamp on the desk. The rest of the station remained in darkness. 

Juliet finally screamed, but for different reasons than Gus. “Carlton! Carlton, what’s--”

Shawn spun around, and when he saw what Juliet saw, stared wide-eyed.

The head detective was bent over the desk, practically lying on top of it. His white-knuckled hands clutched blindly at anything they touched, from papers to the cup full of pencils. He convulsed once and crumpled to the floor, hands still grasping for a hold on something.

Gus let out a high-pitched scream and ran. Shawn wanted to follow but found himself frozen in place.

Lassiter thrashed around on the floor, acting as though he were clambering for a handhold on a cliff. He struggled to his knees, reaching up with one tense and trembling hand to grip the side of the desk. He tried to speak but only managed a choked sort of sound. 

Shawn caught a glimpse of the other man’s eyes. Blue flashed to red to black to blue, a battle of control somewhere inside. And Shawn saw something in the blue-again eyes that he never thought he would see - pure, unbridled terror. 

Lassiter lurched to his feet only to fall again. He arched backwards with shocking flexibility, like a puppet someone attempted to bend in two, before pitching forward again. He knelt there, shaking uncontrollably.

“C-Carlton…?” Juliet whispered.

At first, Lassiter didn’t respond. He only knelt there, arms loose at his sides and staring straight ahead, motionless except for the shivering. Then even that stopped.

“Lassie?” Shawn asked softly, his brow furrowed. 

Then Lassiter stood and slowly turned around. Juliet bit back another cry and even Shawn had difficulty not screaming.

The sky blue eyes now shimmered black. 

Lassiter’s lips curled into a grin - and it wasn’t a friendly one. Then, in a voice that was his and yet not his, he said, “ _Yes, I can talk. Now._ ”


	4. Body Stealer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night of undercover work goes terribly, terribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a safe story; not really anything to rate it for. It ends abruptly on purpose - for one, I would have ended up writing an entire ten to fifteen page story if I had continued. For another, cliffhangers are quite fun, in my opinion. Also, there is no apparent ship in this particular one-shot.
> 
> Keep in mind that I haven't seen anything past Psych Season 4 Episode 4, plus the Musical episode. So if anyone is out-of-character, or something seems terribly AU, that would be why. Enjoy!

Out of the four of them, Shawn was the only one enjoying the undercover task the chief had given them. They were at the theatre, pretending to be actors in a rendition of Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”; they needed to have access to everything backstage in order to keep a lookout for a murderer.

Shawn was certain that Lassie actually enjoyed the melodramatics and extravagance that came with being an actor - especially the actor playing Oberon. He just refused to admit it. 

Gus had always wanted to be onstage - but not in order to lure a killer out of hiding. He also did not appreciate the fact that he was playing Peter Quince. And Juliet did what she needed to do, but didn’t seem too thrilled about all of it - but Shawn had to admit she was a very talented actress. It wasn’t just his opinion; she had been given the part of Titania. 

Of course, Shawn felt he had received the best part - Theseus, the heroic duke of Athens.

Tonight was the second performance, and it went as well as could be expected. Shawn had a very hard time getting out of character on their way to the parking lot - Gus had to slap him in the shoulder to make him return to normal.

Juliet no doubt found herself fortunate for that - because Gus’s car was in the shop, meaning that he and Shawn had to ride with the detectives. Shawn and Juliet took one car and Gus and Lassiter had the other.

That’s where they were now - in their cars and on their way back to the station.

“May I just say that you are a beautiful queen,” Shawn remarked casually to Juliet as they drove down the road.

She laughed a bit. “Well, thanks. I’ll be glad when we finally find the murderer though. Being onstage isn’t really my idea of fun.”

“Oh, c’mon. You can’t tell me you don’t enjoy playing a queen, especially since you get to rebel against the requests of Lassie, him being the king and all,” Shawn said, arching his eyebrows. She just laughed. 

Shawn turned his eyes to the windshield and watched the road in front of them, partially lost in his thoughts. Then the faintest pressure against his back brought him back to an aware state. The car was speeding up; now it had passed the speed limit. “Uh, Jules?”

No answer. 

“Jules, slow down.” Shawn looked over at her, a warning in his voice.

She was staring straight ahead, hands rigid; she didn’t respond, verbally or otherwise. The glassy look in her eyes reflected the streetlights. The car continued to accelerate.

“Jules!” Shawn lunged forward, taking hold of the wheel. He kept a grasp on it with one hand, trying to stay on the road while simultaneously trying to pick Juliet’s foot up off the gas pedal. “Jules!” 

He managed to drag her foot from the pedal, and - trying to keep on the road at the same time - slammed his palm against the brake. 

The tires squealed against the pavement, and the car jerked forward from the effort it made to stop. Shawn lost his balance - and his grip on the steering wheel. The last thing he saw was the tree rushing forward to meet the car.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

“Shawn. Shawn!”

The man whose name was being urgently repeated blinked his eyes open. “Gus?”

“Thank God you’re okay.” Gus shuddered, letting his held breath out in a loud huff. “Shawn, we thought you were dead. Me and Lassiter had to drag you and Juliet out of the car; neither of you were conscious or responding.”

“Jules…” Shawn mumbled. He rolled over and sat up with Gus’s help. 

Lassiter was a few feet away, shaking Juliet’s shoulder; his whole body was tense, betraying his anxiety. “O’Hara. O’Hara, wake up.” 

After a few moments, Juliet sat bolt upright so quickly that Lassiter fell backwards, startled. She stared into space with vacant eyes. A cut on her forehead sent crimson droplets rolling down her temples from time to time. 

“I think something’s wrong with her. She looked all blank like that earlier too,” Shawn said, wincing as he got to his feet. “That’s why we crashed; she was zoned out and I couldn’t control the car well enough from the passenger seat.” He cautiously made his way over to stand beside Lassiter, who knelt on the ground, having recovered from being surprised.

“Guster, call an ambulance,” Lassiter ordered. He looked back down at Juliet, who still sat on the ground, staring into space. “O’Hara,” he stated, enunciating clearly. “Can you hear us?” 

Suddenly, she stared straight at Lassiter - and then laughed. A voice that sounded like hers but clearly wasn’t, spoke. “ _Well, she_ can, _but right now, she can’t really talk back. I’m kind of in control of her body right now. It takes some getting used to - I’ve never done this before._ ”

Lassiter’s face twisted into an expression of confusion. “What the hell?”

Shawn, however, knew exactly what was going on and who was orchestrating it - even if it didn’t make sense. He peered closely at Juliet. “Yang?”

“ _Yep, that’s me!_ ” the voice said - through Juliet’s mouth - in a cheerful tone. “ _I’m so glad you remember me, Shawn. I was afraid you wouldn’t, and that would have made me sad._ ”

“How the hell is this even happening?” Lassiter snapped, rising sharply to his feet and reaching one hand subconsciously into his jacket. He let his arm lower slowly when he remembered that this wasn’t really Yang - not physically. The person in front of him was his own partner. He couldn’t shoot her. 

“ _Oh, don’t act so surprised. Spirits that aren’t resting peacefully can take control of still-living bodies. It’s pretty cool, actually._ ” 

“What do you want, Yang?” Shawn asked, trying to keep his voice light and amiable. 

“ _Just a teensy-weensy favour. I can’t really do the whole ‘rest in peace’ thing until I finish up some business I left behind. Obviously, I can’t finish it myself, being dead and everything. So your girlfriend - or is she Mr. Grumpy’s girlfriend? I never could tell - was kind enough to give me permission to use her body for a while_ ,” Yang said.

“She didn’t give you permission,” Lassiter snapped. “If you don’t let her go, I’m going to--”

Shawn held up a hand, trying to silence the detective. He hated the circumstances as much as Lassiter did - but he also knew Yang. “Unfinished business, huh?” 

“ _Yes. Very important business. It really needs to be resolved_ ,” Yang’s spirit responded. “ _And I’m going to need your help; I’m not used to being in control of someone else’s body. So I can’t have your friend here do all the work, sadly._ ” She didn’t sound too sad - in fact, she sounded rather pleased that she would ‘need’ to work with Shawn.

“Okay,” Shawn said. He glanced at Lassiter, who returned the glance and gave an almost imperceptible nod of begrudging agreement, a scowl on his face. Shawn turned back to Juliet - or Yang, now, until further notice. “What do you need us to do?”


	5. Jekyll and Hyde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lassiter was kidnapped, but he came back to the police department unscathed. Except for one little thing...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one-shot for MuiromeM's Psychtober prompt list. There are mentions of drugs, so we'll rate this at T just to be safe. Enjoy!

The police department had been in a state of muted panic ever since Head Detective Carlton Lassiter had disappeared. So when he had finally been found - looking worse for the wear, but alive - in an abandoned warehouse, there had been much relief. The men who had overpowered him and taken him captive were nowhere to be found; but the department had one of their best men back, and could continue the search for the criminals properly.

At first, no one noticed anything strange about Lassiter. Or, if they did, they chalked it up to him being slightly out-of-it as he healed.

They were wrong.

\- . - . - . - . - . - . -. -

Shawn took a long swig of his Sprite soda, sauntering into the police department with the intention of seeing if there was a case he could help with. Gus was at work, so what else was Shawn going to do? Housework was out of the question.

He spotted a familiarly lanky figure disappearing into one of the storage rooms. Without a second thought, Shawn trotted in that direction and entered the room as well. “Hello, Lassie. What are you sneaking around for? Did you steal the chief’s coffee or something?”

He expected an eye roll, or perhaps a weary retort of annoyance. Instead, he was met with Lassiter turning on his heel and leaning against the wall, fixing Shawn with a bright-eyed stare and a smirk. One ankle was crossed in front of the other, and his arms were folded across his chest; his stance overall reminded Shawn of a cat - possibly a panther.

“Lassie? How much coffee have you had today?” Shawn admonished nonchalantly. “You look like you’re on a caffeine high.”

“You know what, Spencer,” Lassiter said, and his voice was light - almost too light. “The fact you’re still alive right now astounds me.”

Shawn blinked, and the feeling of uneasiness began to rise inside of him. He kept it hidden though. “Yeah, I know. It’s amazing. Sometimes I wonder if I’m immortal.”

Lassiter gave a sharp laugh. “How about we test that theory?”

“No, I’d much rather not, unless it involves a game of Chicken, because I usually beat Gus at those. Though it’s easy to beat Gus at most things.” Shawn kept talking as a distraction - for both himself and for Lassiter - and tried to figure out why the detective was acting so strangely. Something besides his personality change seemed off… 

Then Shawn’s attention was brought to Lassiter’s eyes. The detective’s pupils had dilated to the point where only a ring of blue was visible. Shawn didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed before. “Lassie… what have you been doing?” 

It was drugs; Shawn could tell that now. But the question he had was what kind of drugs, and how long would it take to wear off? Also, the question of ‘why in the world is Lassie doing drugs’ came to mind.

Another laugh, but no verbal response to Shawn’s question. Lassiter unfolded his arms and stepped away from the wall, rolling his neck from side to side. “Nothing of importance.” Before Shawn could protest again, Lassiter lunged forward without warning.

Shawn yelped and stumbled backwards. “What, hey, stop it!” He ducked sideways, putting a shoulder-high storage shelf in between him and Lassiter. His eyes fell on something behind the detective he hadn’t been able to see before - a syringe and bottle, resting atop a box. His suspicions were further confirmed - but he wasn’t close enough to see what sort of drug it was.

Lassiter grasped the edge of the shelf with both hands, gazing at Shawn with a fierce intensity that was almost frightening. “Here, puppy.” He grinned.

“No, thanks.” Shawn dodged to one side, then shoved the shelf hard enough to make it slam into Lassiter. It held enough force to send him stumbling backwards.

Shawn took this opportunity to dart forward and snatch up the bottle next to the syringe. The name was unfamiliar, unsurprisingly; he filed it away so that he could ask Gus about it later.

Two strong hands seized his shoulders and wrenched him backwards. He yelped again, just as he was thrown to the floor. Scrambling to his feet, he backpedaled towards the door, staring at Lassiter.

“I always wanted to do this and something always held me back,” Lassiter remarked, almost sounding like his old self. He glanced up at the ceiling in a pondering manner. “Whatever it was… it’s gone now. And I love it.” He looked back at Shawn. “You’ve made me look like an idiot in front of everyone more times than I can count, and I hated it. I hated not being able to do anything about it.” He advanced a few steps closer. “But now I can.”

Shawn very slowly reached one hand behind him, inching it closer toward the doorknob. “I’m sorry about all of that, Lassi--Carlton. But it was unavoidable. I have the strangest habit of doing that to people and I really don’t mean to. It just happens. I’m a compulsive make-people-look-like-idiots-er. I really should see a head doctor about it.” 

The chatter was doing nothing to halt Lassiter’s slow, threatening advance towards Shawn. 

It was now or never, Shawn twisted around and started to wrench the door open. A sharp burst of pain struck him in the back of the head, and he yelled, letting go of the door and falling to his knees. He clutched at his hair with one hand, feeling the traces of blood. “What--” Looking up, he saw Lassiter holding a gun in one hand.

Of course. How could he have forgotten that Lassiter always had a gun on his person? This wasn’t good.

“Look. I have a date with a Jamba Juice Aloha Pineapple smoothie in about ten minutes, so how about I just get out of here, and I’ll never pester you again,” Shawn suggested, a little shaky. He clambered backwards and braced his back against the door, intending to use it as support to help him stand.

Lassiter spun his gun around his finger, and Shawn instinctively flinched, worried it would go off. It didn’t. “Yeah, you won’t pester me again. But not because I’m going to let you go.”

He looked at the gun in his hand for a moment before making a contemplative sound and placing it back in his holster. He reached over to a crate and picked up a box cutter.

Shawn’s heart sank into his stomach, and dragged himself to his feet, trying to open the door again. The handle stuck, and he rattled it frantically. This was the police department. Surely someone was within close enough range to help. “Jules!”

Lassiter, grinning, tossed the cutter up in the air and caught it a few times. Then he moved forward.

“ _Jules_!”


End file.
